


Overlooked

by wandering_revolve



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dark John, Dark fic, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Frustrated Sherlock, M/M, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-11 08:58:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11711109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandering_revolve/pseuds/wandering_revolve
Summary: “Maybe we are overlooking something—something that’s right in front of us."





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I neither own these fabulous characters, nor anything Sherlock-related. I'm sure us Johnlock shippers would all agree on what would happen if we did own the show... ;)

_Knock-knock!_

The cheap motel door opens to reveal a gorgeous, scantily clad woman. Her glossy, red lips spread into a seductive smile, while her blue eyes sparkle with layers of mischief.

“My name is Clandestine. You know why I’m here.”

 _Clandestine_. Ironically, that word perfectly describes their meeting. The man nods and steps aside, allowing her to enter. A single candle on the dresser creates more shadows than light in the darkened room. The man quickly looks around before shutting the door.

Clandestine glances at him through hooded eyes. “Tell me what you like, babe,” she says lowly.

The man grabs her shoulders and turns her around. “How about you show me? That’s even better.”

Gloved fingertips gently sweep her long, blonde hair over her left shoulder. Clandestine giggles.

“You don’t have to be so gentle with me. I can-ow!” Her hand slaps against her neck. “What was…what…did…”

Suddenly, she falls to the dirty carpet below, where a series of convulsions wrack her body. Within seconds, her body stills, her wide eyes transfixed on her supposed customer.

The man crouches down and pulls up her tight blouse to expose her abdomen. There, he carves a series of markings into the soft, pale canvas. Clandestine groans, her throat gurgling. The man squeezes her hand in an almost soothing gesture as small trickles of blood escape from the fresh wounds. With the job done, he cleans up and closes the door quietly after himself.

________________________________________

_Prostitute. Puncture wound to the neck consistent with a needle. Width and length of markings on the skin are consistent with the same needle. Bluish lips and nails. Pool of vomit…_

“You got anything, Sherlock?”

A pair of intense, silvery eyes bore into the woman resting on the grungy ground. He doesn’t look up at the man who tried interrupting his deductive process.

John comes barging in after him. “Lestrade, you know he hates being interrupted.” He glances at his flatmate. “Sorry, Sherlock. We’re on our way out.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No need. I’ve come to the conclusion that we are dealing with a serial killer.” 

He tames the eagerness that flares up within him. Sherlock has a weakness for serial killers. He’s never bored with them. 

“You sure?” Lestrade asks.

Sherlock gives him a look that says ‘am I ever not sure?’ before continuing, “She bears an identical puncture wound to the right side of her neck. The bluish tint present in her lips and nails indicates the poison of choice was morphine. These findings are consistent with the first victim.”

Lestrade makes no attempt to argue and exhales. “Blimey.” He glances at the body, scanning it. “Those look like the same markings as the first victim.”

Sherlock nods. “Written in Morse code. It spells out my name.”

“Who has it out for you this time, mate?” Lestrade remarks half-jokingly.

“Moriarty liked writing your name,” John states. “Could it be someone affiliated with him?”

“Not likely. I destroyed his entire framework. That case is closed.”

“I dunno, Sherlock. Those types of people can pop up all over the place,” Lestrade says doubtfully. “Maybe it’s a fan club out to get revenge for his death.”

Sherlock scoffs lightly. “Where would they have trained somebody to acquire and use morphine with such precision?”

“So, this means we’re looking for someone who has medical expertise and access to hospital drugs, right?”

Sherlock’s gaze flickers to the shorter man. “Morphine is legally attainable through prescription.”

“Do you really think this bloke would take the legal route?”

“Possibly, in order to appear less suspicious.” Sherlock heads toward the door.

“Wouldn’t that make him easier to spot?” John asks, following him. “If he did handle the morphine legally, a pharmacist would have record of it.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Lestrade pipes up. “You guys have a word with the pharmacists and let me know if anything comes up. We don’t have many leads, so we’ll take anything we can get.”

John flashes a confident smile at his flatmate before walking past him out the door. Sherlock glances at Lestrade, unamused.

“What?” the copper asks innocently.

Sherlock just rolls his eyes.

________________________________________

Sure enough, a phone call to every pharmacy in London proved that John was right. A handful of people in the area are on morphine, and it’s the pill form, not the liquid, so every person was ruled out.

“That’s not to say they obtained the prescription elsewhere,” Sherlock tried to reason, “such as another part of England or even another country in the UK.”

“And go through the trouble of killing London prostitutes? What would be the logic behind that?” John retorted.

The conversation pretty much ended right there, until John suggested they check with every hospital in London to see if any morphine was missing from their supply. Each vial of liquid morphine was present and accounted for at every hospital. Their security cameras revealed nothing useful. 

“John, the perpetrator could have taken the morphine from any hospital in the UK,” he tried to reason again. “We’re not branching out far enough and exploring the other possibilities.” 

“Doesn’t that sound a bit far-fetched? The bloke steals morphine from a hospital in another country and travels here to kill prostitutes with it? Why not kill them in their country? Why London?”

 _Why are you asking so many bloody questions?_ is what Sherlock wants to say but stops himself. 

“Perhaps he’s trying to prove a point.”

“How so?”

“For God’s sake, John, he’s taking the time to carve my name into their flesh! Clearly the killer wants me to see something.”

Finally, John falls silent. He raises his steaming cuppa to his lips while gazing at Sherlock thoughtfully.

“Maybe we are overlooking something—something that’s right in front of us.” He shrugs and sets the cup down before returning to the book on his lap.

Sherlock quirks a brow but doesn’t respond. Instead, he sprawls out on the couch with his hands pressed together and drowns himself in the stormy recesses of his mind.  
________________________________________

Two weeks fly by without another murder. Sherlock busied himself with smaller cases and solved them within a couple days. Still, he couldn’t fully drag his mind away from the prostitute murders. There is something incredibly troubling about them. Right when he refocuses on the case, a young woman’s body turns up in a shady motel. 

As Sherlock crouches beside the body, it doesn’t take him long to reach a conclusion:

“Our killer struck again.”

“That makes her number three. Christ, how many young women have to die before we catch this guy?” Lestrade shakes his head in disgust. “Do you blokes have any leads, yet?”

Sherlock glances up at him. “Do you?”

Lestrade huffs. “We’ve been working our arses off and haven’t come up with a single bloody thing!” Apparently, the whole Yard also feels the strain of this case. 

Sherlock slowly stands back up when John’s words ring in his ears: _Maybe we are overlooking something—something that’s right in front of us_. Well, he’s done a thorough analysis on the body, so it must not be something physical. Internal, maybe? If that’s the case, he’ll have to get an expert opinion, just to be certain.

“We’ll be off, then,” Sherlock announces and heads for the door with John on his heels.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock stops at the entrance and turns. John accidentally runs into him. Sheepishly, the shorter man takes a few steps back, his face turning a light shade of pink.

Lestrade draws in a breath. “Please, let me know if anything turns up. Anything at all, even if it seems insignificant. Will you do that?”

Sherlock gives a curt nod.

________________________________________

At the morgue, Molly is about to slide the prostitute’s body inside the fridge when Sherlock approaches her from behind. She jumps, like she always does, and whips around, her gaze softening.

“You know not to do that, Sherlock,” she mumbles. “It makes me think one of the dead came back to life.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, just gazes at the pale, lifeless woman. “What was found during her autopsy?”

Molly flushes at their close proximity. “Um, the official cause of death is a morphine overdose via injection. No other drugs were found in her system. Also, there was no evidence of a struggle or sexual assault.”

“That’s it? There must be something we’re overlooking!” He takes off into the laboratory. “Where are the hair and fluid samples? I must see this for myself.”

Molly hesitates but hands the samples to him without question. Sherlock sits behind the microscope and secures the hair slide into the microscope clip, examining it closely. Molly stands to the side, her gaze transfixed on him.

“Our pathologist rarely overlooks things. What are you expecting to find?”

“Something, anything, that can help me solve this case faster.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t solved it yet.”

“I don’t have much to go on.”

“Any suspects?”

Sherlock sighs and pulls his eyes away from the microscope. “No, and there isn’t anything unusual on this sample. Fetch me the other one.”

Molly obeys, handing the blood slide to him. “If I were to take a guess at possible suspects, I’d say you need to look out for someone with medical knowledge and easy access to medical facilities. Those puncture wounds are spot on the jugular vein.” 

“I appreciate the detailed analysis, but I already know that much.”

Molly shrugs awkwardly. “Just stating my opinion.”

Sherlock hums thoughtfully, his gaze hardening at the sample. Molly notices and glances over his shoulder curiously. 

“You got anything?”

After a moment, he shakes his head and pulls away from the microscope in defeat. “I don’t understand. I’ve thoroughly examined each victim from the inside out. What could I possibly be overlooking?”

“Well, I’m thinking someone’s out to get you.”

“It’s set up like someone with a vendetta, however, I’ve searched through my entire database of likely suspects, and I’ve ruled each of them out. The morphine and prostitutes don’t add up to anyone.” He sighs. “I’ve never taken this long to solve a case before. It’s driving me mad.” 

Molly sets a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently. “You’ll figure it out, Sherlock. You always do.”

Sherlock cracks a small smile and rises from the stool. “Thank you for all that you do, Molly.” He says lowly.

Molly grins, swooning slightly at the praise. “You’re welcome, Sherlock. Anything for you.”

________________________________________

When Sherlock returns to 221B, he unleashes his frustration on the wall. As he adds more holes to the collection, he imagines each bullet tearing through the killer’s body. The thoughts fill him with a morbid sense of satisfaction. This is exactly what he’s going to do to the bastard once he catches him. 

John sits with his book and flinches with each shot. “It’s going to cost you a fortune to get that repaired,” he comments.

“I don’t care at the moment,” comes the low response.

John looks up from his book. “Sherlock, you’ll solve the case.”

“Will I?” He spins and fires a couple more shots.

“Of course you will. You don’t believe in cold cases.” 

“Did you find anything while I was out?”

“I contacted Mycroft, but it was a dead end.” 

Sherlock fires one more shot into the wall before plopping down in his chair. “I’ve ruled him out.”

John puts down his book. “Why?”

“Killing prostitutes and carving my name into their flesh in Morse code isn’t exactly his style. He prefers a subtler approach.”

“Maybe he’s changed his style.”

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. “It’d be too much effort on his part.”

“We must be looking for a first time offender, then.” He looks across at Sherlock. “Someone we’ve never heard of, maybe?”

“It’s possible we haven’t seen him before, but a first time offender isn’t this _clean_. The lack of evidence at each scene suggests the work of someone who’s done their research. It’d be fascinating if it weren’t so damn frustrating.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Nothing compares to a brilliant, criminal mind.”

“I suppose so.” He pauses. “I’ll be heading out tonight. Just wanted to let you know.” 

Actually, Sherlock doesn’t want or need to know that. A familiar twinge creeps into his system. He doesn’t need the images of random women wallowing all over John with their cheap perfume and lipstick. Sherlock doesn’t respond to the statement and slips inside the reassuring familiarity of his mind. 

________________________________________

Sherlock spends the following morning at a motel assessing the body of a young woman. The manner of death is consistent with their annoyingly clever killer. The only difference with this scene is that the killer changed his message. 

Sherlock taps out the code against his leg: “C-a-t-c-h m-e.” Wow, even the killer knows this game is getting ridiculous.

Lestrade stands next to him. “We viewed the motel records. Nobody has checked into this room in over a month.”

“Of course. The killer knows that would expose them. There’s been no signs of forced entry, so they obtained a room key somehow,” Sherlock explains. “We’re dealing with a brilliant, methodical bastard,” he adds under his breath.

“Do you think he’s working alone?” Lestrade asks. 

Sherlock nods. “An accomplice would only get in the way of such quick, dirty work.”

“Have all the victims’ families been notified?” John asks, standing opposite them.

Lestrade shakes his head grimly. “Not all of them, unfortunately. We’re still looking for the third victim’s family.”

John sighs. “That's a shame.”

Sherlock starts pacing, a mess of thoughts filling his brain. “The killer is taking the precious time to lure each victim to a filthy motel, instead of a dark alleyway or vehicle. This is a fantastic way to minimize suspicion and maintain control over the naïve victim. He can do virtually anything to end her life in this position. He could stab her, shoot her, beat her, but those are far too messy. He likes to keep his hands clean. Cleanliness and organization are important attributes of our killer’s profile.” 

Lestrade stares at him, impressed. “Did you just now come up with all that?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes in response.

“He wants the bodies to be found because he makes no attempts to move them or cover up the crime scene,” John adds.

Sherlock glances at him. “Fair observation, John.”

John ducks his head and smiles shyly at the praise. Lestrade jots a few things down on his notepad, possibly to make it look like he’s doing something.

“Right, I’ll be in touch,” he announces.


	2. Part Two

“Wow, you’re pretty good at this.”

“Hush.”

With his gaze fixed on the dart board, Sherlock carefully takes aim and tosses another dart. It sticks right in the middle target. John bought him the board in order to save what’s left of the wall. Sherlock’s taken to it quite well, which not only pleases John, but also their landlady, Mrs. Hudson. 

John clicks around on his laptop. “Let’s say our killer turns up. What do you think will happen to him?”

“Many things; all of which are unpleasant.”

Sherlock grits his teeth. Suddenly, right when he is about to release another dart, something whizzes past his head, missing him by centimeters, and sticks to the middle of the board. Sherlock jumps, the dart falling from his hand. 

“Looks like I’m pretty good at this game, too.”

John approaches the board and pulls the familiar object out. “Remember these needles, Sherlock?” He dangles it in front of his face.

Sherlock’s eyes don’t follow the swaying needle. He keeps them fixed straight ahead on the board.

“All right, I know this is…a bit of a shock, but there was no other way…” 

Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobs, but he keeps his gaze steady. John steps in front of him, their bodies almost touching, and lowers his voice.

“There was no other way to get through to someone as dense as you.”

Sherlock’s intense gaze finally snaps onto John. His hands twitch at his sides, his lips press into a tight line. John timidly reaches out and brushes the smooth, porcelain skin of Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock visibly flinches.

“Call me bloody crazy, but I’m attracted to you.”

In the blink of an eye, Sherlock whips out the pistol and presses the barrel into John’s forehead. “All those women, John…you sacrificed four women over a petty attraction?” he spits in quiet anger.

John gulps and looks up at him. “I had no choice…”

“You always have a choice!” Sherlock hisses. 

“At least they were prostitutes, weren’t they?”

Sherlock stares at him with the fury of a thousand suns. How could he have been so daft? When he thinks about it, John fits the killer’s profile perfectly. Not that he wants to think about it. Not with his gut churning in rage, betrayal, intrigue, and something else entirely unwelcome.

After what feels like an eternity, he tosses the gun carelessly to the ground. “You know this doesn’t look pleasant for you.” 

John exhales. “Of course. But I was willing to risk it to catch your attention.”

“Stupid. That was just bloody stupid!” He smacks him across the face. “And brilliant. Very brilliant.”

John cups his stinging cheek and watches as Sherlock starts pacing. 

“Your _repulsive_ work kept me awake every night wondering what I could have possibly been overlooking. So many facts; so little evidence. I nearly drove myself mad with the desire to solve this case.” He stops and turns to face him. “Your thinking wasn’t just brilliant, John; it was the work of a stupid, mad genius.”

A smile tugs at the corners of John’s lips. “It doesn’t take a genius to know that crime is your oxygen, and mysteries are your aphrodisiac.”

Sherlock stands in front of him. They stare at each other before Sherlock lunges forward and smashes their lips together. The force causes John to drop the needle and crash back into the wall. They release weeks of pent-up emotions through the harsh clacking of teeth and frantic clawing at something intangible. 

When they part for air, John takes the upper hand and shoves Sherlock toward the couch. Sherlock falls back onto the plush material with John falling on top of him. John makes quick work removing his clothes until he is just in his trousers. He starts on Sherlock’s long coat before a pair of large, pale hands still his efforts. 

“John, we shouldn’t…”

“Why? Would shagging a wanted man leave a mark on your conscience?”

Sherlock sighs. He’s never been good with emotions. “I’m not sure I want to take it this far.”

“Well, _I_ didn’t come this far to not get what I want,” is the throaty response.

Sherlock blinks as John gets back to work ridding him of his clothes. Sherlock lies pliant beneath the busy hands until he, too, is only in his trousers. John sits back and admires the long, pale plane of Sherlock’s torso.

“You’re beautiful.”

Sherlock snorts. “How sentimental.”

“I mean it, Sherlock. I’ve always admired you. I gave you so many signs that I was interested, but I kept getting overlooked. I was pretty sure you felt the same way, but you are a such a stubborn prat.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, only to close it. There’s no way he can defend his foolishness...not when he realizes the signs of John’s mutual interest have been there since they met. The spark…if only Sherlock pulled himself out of his denial and faced his feelings, they wouldn’t be going through this right now. Damn his emotional incompetence.

Sherlock remains still, lost in thought, as John rids them of their trousers. He’s not really engaging with John, but his half-hard member signals his body isn’t completely uninterested.

John reaches for his discarded trousers, where he retrieves a small bottle of lube from the pocket. He squeezes a liberal amount of lube onto his fingers before reaching around himself. He makes quick work prepping himself, his slick fingers sliding in and out at a brutal pace. Sherlock watches him intently, observing the other man’s fluttering eyelashes and parted lips, while listening to every quiet moan and hitch of breath. Without prior thought, Sherlock’s hand grips his member and starts stroking it to full hardness. 

John’s blown gaze snaps up, and they lock eyes. Sherlock swears he feels his own pupils dilating. With that, John removes his fingers and squirts a generous amount of lube onto Sherlock’s erection. Sherlock sucks in a quiet breath at how cold the liquid is. He stares up at John but makes no attempt to remove himself from the situation.

“The good doctor doesn’t believe in playing it safe?”

John flushes. “Not all the time.”

Tossing the bottle of lube aside, John grabs Sherlock’s member and lines it up with his prepared entrance. Without warning, John slams down onto the hard organ, a shout escaping his lips. Sherlock hisses at the tight sensation. He squeezes John’s hips so hard he’s sure there will be bruises later. 

John takes up a rough pace, practically impaling himself on Sherlock’s erection, and gyrates his hips every other time down. Sherlock hangs on for the ride, his eyes screwed shut, his breathing heavy through his nostrils.

“Yes, yes, Sherlock!” John shouts.

Sherlock grunts in response. John drops his head every time his prostate takes a hit. Thin trails of precome dribble down his pulsating shaft.

“Nngh, so bloody good!”

If the circumstances surrounding their escapade were different and if Sherlock were contributing more, he might experience a flood of pride at making John feel so good. However, these are downright horrible circumstances, and he is just a passive partner, so John's pleasure doesn't mean as much. Sherlock chews on his lip while observing John’s blissed-out expression. Droplets of sweat make his body glisten in the evening light.

“Been…waiting for this,” John pants.

He leans in and starts nipping at Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock makes a face at the wetness. Sweat sure looks better at a distance than felt up close. John draws the delicate, pale flesh into his mouth and sucks hard, causing Sherlock to wince.

“Dammit, John,” he utters.

John pulls back, admiring the angry skin. “Now you’re mine. Don’t you forget it.” He resumes the punishing pace, throwing his head back in ecstasy.

Sherlock blinks. He honestly doesn’t know what to think about that. Someone owning him? Well, he quickly decides he doesn’t like that thought very much.

“I’m almost there,” John pants. “Are you?”

“I think so,” Sherlock murmurs.

“You think so?” John laughs. “Sherlock, you either feel it or you don’t.”

“Pardon me for being sexually inexperienced…”

John gapes. “You’re joking, right? Have you ever had an orgasm before?”

A light red paints Sherlock’s cheeks. “Well, yes, but it’s been a while…”

“This just got even better then!”

John increases his pace, his hands roaming across Sherlock’s chest. It’s not until John massages Sherlock’s nipples that his body stiffens and eyes widen. John moans at the reward of warm, thick fluid filling him up. 

“Ah, yes, just like that, Sherlock!”

John releases right after, untouched, his come splattering across Sherlock’s abdomen. Sherlock pulls a face at the sticky mess. John collapses down onto him, only adding to Sherlock’s discomfort. They lay like this for a few moments with Sherlock’s mind whirring.

“May I go clean up?”

“How polite of you to ask.” John removes himself from the other man. “Of course you may.”

Sherlock nods and disappears from the room. John wets a kitchen rag and wipes himself clean of their mingled bodily fluids. He takes his sweet time putting his clothes back on and sits on the couch, wincing at the ache in his arse as he does so. When Sherlock reappears, he’s fully dressed with his cellphone pressed against his ear.

John cocks his head to the side. “Who are you-” 

“Good evening, Lestrade. I think you will be pleased to hear I’ve apprehended our serial killer.” The color rushes out of John’s face. “Yes, it is a tremendous relief. Yes, justice is finally being served. He’s at my flat, so bring yourself over.” He hangs up. 

The shorter man stares at him, mouth agape. “Sh-Sherlock, you wouldn’t…”

“You’re a wanted murderer, John.” He slaps a pair of handcuffs onto John’s wrists. “I owe your capture to the Yard, as well as my own sanity.”

“But I did all that for you! And we just had sex!”

“I’m afraid that defense won’t hold up very well in court.” Sherlock gets in his face. “You stupid, brilliant bastard.” He presses their lips together firmly.

John kisses back and follows him when the kiss breaks. Tears well in his eyes, giving Sherlock a heart-wrenching glimpse of the old, vulnerable John.

“What have I done, Sherlock?” he whispers.

“You should have just told me.” He murmurs with a gentleness he didn’t know he possessed. "How did you think this would turn out?"

“I thought you wanted me the way I want you." He draws in a deep breath. "I love you, Sherlock, and I'm so sorry for everything."

John hangs his head, allowing the tears to stain his cheeks. Sherlock’s throat constricts with damned emotion. Nobody’s ever uttered those three words to him before in his life. Hell, he never has either – never felt that with anyone. He’s gripped by a sudden sense of longing when a firm knock sounds on the door.

“Sherlock, it’s Lestrade!”

“Come in.”

Lestrade enters with another officer. “Well, who is the…” He trails off when he sees John in handcuffs. “Is this some kind of prank?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I'm afraid not, Lestrade. I have my suspicions that John committed these crimes.”

“On what grounds?”

“I received a confession.”

“Really? That doesn't make sense."

“Does anything in this line of work ever make sense?” Sherlock snaps. “You should know by now to expect the unexpected."

Lestrade blinks. “Take it easy, Sherlock, I-”

“I did it,” John says weakly. “I murdered those women.”

“No, John, I don’t think you did.”

“Are you a policeman, Lestrade?” Sherlock asks, his eyes sharp. He feels his former frustrations with the case taking another swing at him. “If you were a proper officer for Her Majesty, you would look into this. He is the only suspect you have right now.”

Lestrade exchanges glances with the other officer. “Well, if this is what your instinct is telling you, I suppose we could take him in for questioning. I really hope you're both wrong, though.” He hauls John to his feet. “Get the door for us?”

The other officer nods and opens the door for them. Lestrade and John make their way to the door.

That’s when Sherlock notices the syringe John dropped on the floor earlier. He bends down and carefully picks it up. John casts a look over his shoulder. Sherlock makes eye contact with him, the syringe dangling from his fingers. John’s eyes widen.

The three are barely out the door when Sherlock says, “Wait.”

Without thinking, he slides the syringe into his coat pocket before they turn around. John draws his bottom lip between his teeth, breath caught in his throat. Lestrade gazes at him expectantly.

“What is it now, Sherlock?”

“I just want to - _turn in this piece of evidence that will surely convict John_ \- wish you officers a lovely evening.” He smiles awkwardly.

Relief floods across John's face, and Lestrade quirks a brow.

“Right, thanks, Sherlock…you too.”

The three continue out the door. The other officer tips his hat at Sherlock before closing the door after them. Sherlock releases the breath he didn’t realize he was holding in. He stares at the syringe then at the door. He knows what the right thing would be to do, but the cold ache clutching at his hardened heart says otherwise. 

"Dammit, John," he mutters.

With that, he retreats to the kitchen, where he gently wipes the syringe free of John’s prints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I had the ending where John just goes off to prison, no questions asked (which is very unrealistic, as there is only circumstantial evidence connecting him to the crimes), which meant his actions were all for nothing. Although Sherlock would've satisfied his sense of justice, he would've felt devastated after losing John in such a way. So, in a sense, both of them would've lost. I had to give John a redeeming moment as well. I can't imagine him going full-blown psychopath over a crush, basically. I tried to make Sherlock's conflict evident, but does covering for John seem like something he would do? Would Sherlock ever choose his affection for John over his sense of duty to the Yard? I'd love to hear any thoughts on how this all turned out. :]


End file.
